Marilyn Todd - Jail Bait

‘Count me in, then,’ he’d said, but the Spaniard refused to even help him to his feet.

‘You’ve lost too much blood,’ he sneered, propping him against the tree trunk instead. ‘You will be liability to me, not asset.’ Expertly, he ripped Orbilio’s tunic into bandages and wound them round his neck and head, his fingers none too gentle on the lump. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, handing over his broad, hunting dagger. ‘Keep a lookout, and you,’ he barked at Claudia. ‘You stay with him.’

‘While you go fighting one against thirty?’ How bloody typical,

‘I have quiver and bow.’ Tarraco grinned. ‘And I have plan. You wait here.’

But he should have known he was wasting his breath. As he padded towards the villa, a flash of yellow appeared at his shoulder. ‘Just curious.’ She shrugged. ‘Wondering how you plan to take on the whole gang single-handed.’

‘Easy.’ He laughed. ‘You watch this.’ And hefting a large jug of olive oil on to his shoulder from where he’d hidden it behind a potted palm, he scurried along the far wall of the villa, pausing to pour oil under each door as he passed and leaving a trickle which joined them all up. ‘Is what we Spaniards call a diversion,’ he said, arching one eyebrow in jest.

Claudia’s heart was pounding. Any minute someone could walk out of the villa. Catch them…

‘What about the rain?’ she asked. Surely it would extinguish the flames?

Tarraco’s response was a snort of disgust at so juvenile a question, but a second thought had occurred to her. Sure, the wooden doors would catch fire, the drapes inside, the tapestries, the rugs, the upholstery. But so too- ‘Once this fire takes hold,’ she said, ‘the whole house will go up-’ she paused to make sure he was listening ‘-with every antique and treasure.’

The olive oil faltered mid-pour. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I know.’ Then the flow continued at its old, steady rate, and despite the thunderclaps and the hammering of the rain, Claudia could hear her heart pounding louder.

‘So.’ He dribbled out the last few drops of oil and tossed his long mane back over his shoulders. ‘Are you ready?’

Will I ever be? Claudia drew a deep breath. ‘Naturally.’

‘Then stand back,’ Tarraco said. ‘It begins.’

*

Looking back, so many things happened at once that Claudia had trouble piecing them together. The rain didn’t help. Torrential, obscuring, drumming down on the paths and the roofs. Thunder, lightning, a dozen fires breaking out. From every door, screaming figures burst forth and, if they weren’t in a state of advanced hysteria as they came out, then the hail of arrows Tarraco loosed from his bow quickly hastened it.

‘The army,’ someone shouted. ‘They have us surrounded.’

‘Run for the boats!’

‘Too late, they’ve been holed!’

‘The north shore,’ someone else yelled. ‘Head for the north shore and swim.’

Like a swarm of angry bees, the servants scuttled up the hill, while behind them, the western wing of the villa crackled like the dry tinder that it was. Windows popped, fireballs ran through the corridors, fanned by the swirl of the storm. Tiles fell in, smashing, crashing, as flames licked along wooden floors and gobbled up dry timber rafters. The smell of burning oil mingled with the stench of peeling paint and plaster, of wool and cotton and hemp. In the kitchens, pots cracked in the heat, glass exploded, shelves collapsed as they burned through, dashing jars and crocks to the floor. The stink of burning pepper, leather and vinegar turned the night into acid.

His quiver empty, Tarraco hurled it into the flames. ‘Bastard,’ he spat. ‘Lais didn’t fall for it.’

Claudia followed his gaze. Whilst the flames swirled high into the air along the domestic quarters and storerooms, the atrium and the courtyard had halted their progress. Even fire couldn’t find a purchase on marble. And beyond the atrium, in the calm lee of the peristyle, the gangleaders toughed it out.

‘I suppose that was the end of the oil?’

In reply, Tarraco flung his bow into the furnace and kicked a flowerpot at his feet. ‘I should have risked being seen in the courtyard,’ he spat. ‘I should have poured the oil through that hidden door first.’

He was wrong, of course. Despite the lateness of the hour, such was the state of emergency on the island that few were asleep. Tarraco would have been dead the first time he set foot in the garden. But as he stormed up and down, chewing on his knuckles and swearing at himself under his breath, Claudia knew that to point this out would not quell his anger.

‘Here,’ she called.

With his face black from temper and smoke, Tarraco turned towards her. Just in time to catch the spear which came flying towards him. ‘What’s this for?’ he growled.

As the roof of the storehouse collapsed in on itself, Claudia jabbed a finger in the direction of Lais’ chamber. ‘I thought it was about time we hunted some bears,’ she said.

There’s at least one hide I want nailed to my wall.

They may not have fallen for the cheap diversion, but Lais and her cronies were far from relaxed. One peep behind the second tapestry revealed four people in varying degrees of agitation.

On the left, Cyrus, half-drunk, throwing his chubby hands in the air in a frantic effort to convince Kamar that the fire was the result of a lightning strike on the villa. Janus-fucking-Croesus, how could it be the army? He was the tribune, for gods’ sake, didn’t he have the garrison firmly under control? No buts, Kamar, that was hysteria spewing from the mouths of frightened slaves. They too, he snarled, hand on his scabbard, were overreacting.

At the far end of the room, Pul had his great curved blade drawn and was swishing it about in a series of practice decapitations, and Lais, the Queen herself, was marching up and down the lamplit chamber, clenching and unclenching her fists, shouting to everyone to sit down. Just sit down and shut the fuck up.

‘Now,’ Claudia whispered. There’d never be a better time, they were rattled and edgy and, despite how they saw themselves, all four were offguard at the moment. ‘I’ll take Lais and Kamar,’ she hissed, ‘and leave the soft touches for you.’

Beside the Argonaut tapestry, Tarraco grinned and hefted the spear in his hand. ‘Are you sure?’ he mouthed back. ‘Is not too late to swap.’

Out in the courtyard, a spark from the west wing dodged the raindrops and was caught by the long line of clipped box. For a count of five, it was touch and go between wet leaves and oily resins, then whoosh! Half a bush was alight in an instant.

Claudia and Tarraco watched the flames zip along the line and exchanged glances. What he had failed to achieve, nature amended. Another minute and the fire would spread to this wing…

Claudia’s eyes flashed to the bed and the bulky tables and chests. There was only one way into that room. Therefore only one exit. She swallowed hard. An hour ago, in the underground tomb, she would cheerfully have barricaded Lais into her den and set light to the fire herself. But that was theory. This was practice. Could she hack it in cold blood?

Was there an option?

One boat, which the Spaniard had hidden. Four killers. Three survivors, one seriously wounded. If she ran fast enough, she would not hear their screams as they burned alive in that room.

Her hands were shaking as she turned to face Tarraco, but one glimpse of his rigid jaw was enough. White knuckles gripped the cherrywood shaft of his lance and in his right hand, he weighted a short stabbing sword. For him this had become a crusade. A matter of honour. Self-respect. All those years of pandering to petulant old women, long nights making love with the lights off, there was a debt to be settled, for which he was prepared to lay down his life.